The Unsung Song of the Phantom of the Opera
by Altrn8vIvyLeagueGrrl
Summary: An autobiographical record of the Phantom of the Opera's final reflections. He looks back at the high and lows of his life, in a final penning of his words. He's here, the Phantom of the Opera... Some mild adult themes and language.


The Unsung Song of the Phantom:

An autobiographical record of

The Phantom of the Opera's final reflections

Underneath the long deserted Opera Populaire, a monster dwelled, a monster whose passionate love was destined never to bear fruit. There lived a monster whose songs inspired a young girl's voice to grow beyond her wildest dreams, and a monster that terrified her nearly to insanity. "Discovered in the vaults of the theater," this memoir is a collection of the writings of the monster himself and a tale of one man's struggle against the demons in his mind and the world who shunned him.

"This face which earned a mother's fear and loathing…" What a tragic mistress, Fate, who dealt me such an unfair hand. She who cursed me with this deformed face and earned me a lifetime of scorn and shame. Who exiled me, to forever be an outcast of society.

My mother turned from me at an early age and my father never acknowledged I existed. He maintained to his death he never bore such a monster. And now I've lost Christine. Beautiful Christine. My beautiful Christine, whose voice I led to soar higher than the birds. She's gone now, all gone. And I'm left to shrivel and die – again – in this, this "darkness deep as hell."

"From the moment I met you I knew that I needed you with me, to serve me, to sing. For my music…my music…" The instant this strikingly beautiful, wonderfully innocent and disproportionately talented female snagged my eye, I was addicted. I waited with bated breath for the merest glimpse of her, though she still knew naught of me. I was fascinated with the flowing way her hips moved when she walked, bumping the edges of her skirt and sending it out again in ripples. Her porcelain skin traced glowing outlines before me when I closed my eyes. My heart swelled at the sight of her warm amber eyes, always so hopeful, ceaselessly betraying her careful words. I loved the way she walked, the way she stood, the way she bowed her head in prayer – I loved her. She was my first love, and she was my everything.

I found her one day alone praying. I wasn't even aware of the fact I was singing answers back to her until she began to shake in fear. Violently trembling and deathly pale, Christine stumbled out of the room. I stayed awake late that night, trying to recall every detail of what I had told her. I hadn't meant to answer, to reveal myself so soon. I was just so enraptured by her…but I didn't mean to. Even worse, I had no idea what she thought of me. Who did she think I was? What?

High screams of fear cluttered the air. "He's here: The Phantom of the Opera…He is with us…It's the ghost…" Smirking, I slinked away form the small disaster I was leaving in my wake. My wrath was beginning to fade and I began to wonder idly why I did these things. I didn't consciously plan these disruptions, but every now and then, these moods overtook me. I had learned a long time ago that it only ended in pain when I tried to fight it. I let the high of anger course through my body and I did as my mind led me to do.

"We never said our love was evergreen…" I watched breathlessly as the sparkling, sequined figure of Miss. Daaé turned her graceful neck towards the audience. Her emotion was fed by the utter exhilaration of being the leading soprano, if only for the night. I let the shivers run xylophone tones down my spine. Perfect.

I crept down from my box after the performance to follow my Christine to her dressing room. Softly, I called to her, "Bravi, bravi, bravissimi." As the Giry girl ran to catch up with her, I silently cursed her. Now I would have to wait even longer to talk to my Christine.

I felt my heart swoop as Christine began singing to the Giry girl and my stomach performed a similar, though far less pleasant action when I comprehended exactly what she was speaking of. She was singing of me, and she was singing of fear. I loved the way her lips formed the name she called me, Angel. Nay, the words she spoke of me were not good; indeed, the panicked animal quality in her eyes when she spoke of the dark Angel of her dreams was frightening. That face only increased my mindset. Her resistance was weakness and I hated the repulsion shown by those who cowered in fear of me.

She was completely trance-like as we plunged into the darkness of the lake. The music we sang to each other on that boat was hypnotizing in its seductivity, music that makes your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure. Music that intoxicates your blood and makes you feel a pleasure of drugged intensity. The deeper we got, the closer to my cavern, the more frenetic our music became. Christine's vocalizing took on a hunted quality, strung with sadness and with an undertone of panic, ever-hinting at nightmare that terrifies, yet is woken from reluctantly. Building, building, building, her notes thrust always higher, straining for the release only I could relinquish to her voice.

I whirled in fury, hand clenched over my exposed face. My blood flowed pure rage. No one would do that. No one would do that and live. In a flash my anger switched to anxiety: what was Christine going to think? The sight of her horrified face, her hand clamped over her mouth in a wincing gesture of pain brought a surge of self –loathing to my gut. "Stranger than you dreamt it, can you even bear to look or bear to think of me?..." I held out my hand, pleading for the return of my lone scrap of humanity. My mask, the only piece of clothing by which I could ever hope to bear a resemblance of normal. Christine's pitying eyes were seared into my brain.

They were going to pay – all of them. How dare they. Planning so evilly while poor Christine's back was turned. Plotting so to replace her! I had warned them not to. It was such a shame that they had disobeyed me. For now I would have to exact a punishment. Though this idea was not new to me, my gut still fell at the thought of what I had to do.

"Say you'll love me every waking moment…" My heart broke silently in the shadows as I watch the bond between these two grow and strengthen, corporeal in the evening light. Raoul and Christine. He didn't deserve her. He hadn't worked for her. What business had Christine promising herself to someone? She was an impulsive, silly child, but I loved her. It was torture to watch her proclaim love to someone else. The pain tore through my heart and deep inside of me. I let a moan of agony well up from my chest and rip through the fabric of the night air. "You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!"

This was it: Christine as Miss Don Juan, in Don Juan Triumphant! She could finally prove to them all how wrong they were. As for me, well, it wasn't much of a struggle for the part. Ubaldo Piangi didn't thrash much after I got the noose around his neck. I joined Christine for our duet on stage. Those police thought they could catch us, didn't they? We were gone as they stood.

Foolish boy really, to pursue Christine like that for he had to have known it wouldn't end well for him. Luckily, it was nearly done. Her arguments were weak. I had no "distortions" in my soul. In a few more moments we would be together forever. Together forever, Christine really would be mine. Foolish boy, really.

At another moment I might have called him arrogant for assuming she would do as he instructed. Ah, but I had forgotten, they were in "love." The only real love was mine. The monsieur made a passionate plea. So very touching, but it changed nothing. How dare he ask for compassion? "The world showed no compassion to me…" I had no compassion, and hadn't for a long time. Years of "hatred everywhere", "no kind words from anyone" and "no compassion anywhere" had cured that. Christine was the first to show me any warm feelings. She was my teacher as much as I hers.

Somewhere, somehow, I broke. Kissing Christine, and looking into her eyes, I saw my reflection. I didn't like the face that stared back at me, for the soul inside had finally become as ugly as the face it belonged to. They had to leave. Leave me. Forget me. They were a couple not doomed by nature. Theirs was a marriage Christine belonged in, and it was I who was unworthy.

"I gave you my music, made your song take wing…" Christine is still gone. I live in solitude again. The dust coating my organ thickens with each passing day. No pen has touched a score and no wax sealed a letter until this was penned. This is my final note and my final tribute to my beautiful Christine. "You alone could make my song take flight – it's over now, the music of the night…"

Thank you all. bows I do truly hope that you enjoyed it. We'll just see if the people at Scholastic enjoy this entry in their writing contest. I hope it isn't breaking any rules! Wish me luck, or better yet, send some reviews my way! Please remember, it's the only way I'll improve. Love to you all for making it this far, I know my writing can be rough. Kisses,

Darcy


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